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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

M arie Ballentine had impeccable manners. Unlike her great-nephew, she chatted easily and put Brooklynn at ease, or tried to, anyway.

She was an elderly woman who’d been released from the hospital less than twenty-four hours before.

Even so, she’d gotten up this morning, done her hair, put on her jewelry, and even added a dab of makeup.

The woman was dressed in a cute leisure outfit Brooklynn guessed had come from Chico’s or Neiman-Marcus.

Meanwhile, Brooklynn felt like a slug in her ugly, baggy clothes and the hat that hid her hair.

She hadn’t cared before, but now, meeting this woman who meant so much to Ford, she wished for one of her cute, brightly colored dresses, or even a pair of slacks and a silky blouse.

She wished her hair were down. She wished she had makeup.

She wished she looked like herself. “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Ballentine?”

The woman set down her teacup with a shaky hand.

“Not long. When Ford came to Maine, he wanted me to come too. Not that I have to do what he says, mind you.” She gave her a pointed look, as if to say, I have a mind of my own.

“ But he’s the only family I have left, and I didn’t want to be too far from him.

Of course, he asked me to move into that house with him, but…

.” She looked at a photograph on an end table, and Brooklynn followed her gaze.

It depicted a tall man in his sixties beside a regal-looking woman—Marie in her younger days—along with Charles, Grace, and baby Rosalie.

Brooklynn brushed the woman’s arm. “I’m sorry about your family. I imagine the grief never goes away.”

She turned back to Brooklynn, her head tilting to the side. “He told you about that?”

“A little.”

“You two are an item, then?”

“No, no.” She didn’t know how much she should say about how she’d met Ford, if anything. “We’re just friends.”

“I see.” Though the woman seemed skeptical.

While they talked, Brooklynn took in the space.

Like the foyer and side rooms and hallways, it dripped with luxury.

There were photographs and books and lots of personal touches.

She loved the fact that the woman wore diamonds with her casual outfit.

She loved that, despite this tiny space, she behaved like the queen of her own castle.

Mrs. Ballentine was in the middle of telling a story about her late husband when her words trailed off. She seemed to slump in her seat.

“Are you all right?” Brooklynn leaned closer. “Mrs. Ballentine?”

The woman looked at her, and her eyes popped wide. “Who are you?”

“Uh…I’m Brooklynn. I came with Ford. Your grandson?”

“I don’t know you.” Her volume rose, and she looked terrified. “Where’s my grandson?” She looked around. “Where is he? He was just here.”

“It’s okay. I’m a friend of his.” Brooklynn's great aunt used to have similar episodes, after she was diagnosed with dementia.

Brooklynn had taken care of her from time to time.

Now, she brushed her hand across Mrs. Ballentine's forehead.

It didn't feel hot. She gripped her wrist to check her pulse.

It was neither racing nor sluggish. There didn't seem to be any immediate danger, thank God.

“I need Forbes.” Mrs. Ballentine looked around as if the man might materialize in the room. “Where did he go?”

Brooklynn didn’t know if Forbes ever visited his grandmother, so she assumed the woman was looking for Ford. “He’ll be right back. Why don’t we get you into bed? Would you like that?”

“Well, yes. I suppose.” She tried to stand but wobbled.

Brooklynn wrapped her arm around her waist and supported her as they walked through an opening into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made, so Brooklynn had her sit on a small chair while she pulled the covers back.

The woman didn’t protest as Brooklynn moved her to the bed, slipped off her shoes, and pulled the covers over her.

“Find Forbes,” she said weakly. “I need to talk to him about…something.”

“I will. I promise.” She’d find Ford, anyway. Right away. Obviously, the concussion had affected Mrs. Ballentine more than anyone realized.

Her eyes closed. Had she fallen asleep already? Her breathing was steady. She looked older than she had twenty minutes before, but otherwise, the same. No drooping, nothing that indicated a stroke.

She turned toward the living room, but her gaze caught on an array of framed pictures on the bureau.

She recognized Forbes, the little boy from the photos she’d seen at the house.

His age progressed in the rest of the photos. From eight to ten to a teenager to a college graduate to…

To Ford.

She blinked, trying to work out what she was seeing.

Ford was Forbes. Just as she’d suspected. And just as he’d denied. She’d believed his denial.

He’d lied to her. She’d asked him if he was Forbes Ballentine, and he’d looked her square in the face...

And lied to her.

The truth rang in her head, a buzz she couldn’t shake off.

He’d lied to her about who he was. About everything.

She didn’t understand. All she knew was that the man she’d trusted to protect her couldn’t be trusted at all.

She stepped out of the bedroom and grabbed her backpack, but she couldn’t leave without notifying someone that Mrs. Ballentine needed help.

What should she do?

After considering the question and all the possible answers, she made a decision.

She tapped a text to Alyssa, then opened her ride-sharing app and ordered a car.

When it was on the way, she searched for a notebook and pen, finding both in a kitchen drawer. She left a note on the counter.

Finding one of the bright red pull in case of emergency cords she’d seen earlier, she pulled it, then slipped into the hallway to wait.